Me The Individual

Human skin pigment ranges from pale yellow, cream, pink to dark brown.

There is no black or white.

Some African tribes are charcoal grey, but not black.

There is but one race, the human race.

Beware anything that Divides us.

We must Unite for the Common Good.

Welcome to Planet Paul.

The fictional “Prisoner” of the sixties said,

“I am not a number, I am a person.”

He also claimed he was a “free man”.

He shouted defiantly that he would not be pushed,

Filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed

Or numbered.

I couldn’t agree more.

Nor will I be labelled or classified.

“My life is my own”.

I’m an individual human being.

Not Working or Middle Class,

Nor white nor religious nor atheist,

Nor racist, sexist, feminist, chauvinist,

No Tory, Liberal. Labourite, Corbynista,

Remainer, Brexiteer, Remainiac, Remoaner

Or whatever.

I don’t do labels.

We are each born as single living entities,

Without asking to be who we are.

All in the same “boat”:

A tiny planet on the far edge

Of a spiral galaxy.

My bowels work like everyone else’s.

I belch and fart.

From time to time I’m ill

Or injured.

A man of many moods.

I’ll live and die like everyone else.

For the bottom line is,

We need to Unite,

As We are All the Same.

Paul Butters

Two Voices

(Picture Credit - Geocities)

I wonder if I can write a poem with two voices?

Don’t know mate, maybe you can.

Who the hell are you?

I’m your second voice, you muppet.

Ah. But will they be able to tell?

Well, skim readers might miss it.

Oh.

But if they read “vocally” like you do,

It should be okay.

What, even when I go

Onto a new line?

Reckon so, just about. In any case,

Some websites will format it differently,

But we’ll get away with it.

Is it still poetry though?

Could be, mate.

Really?

Well, it depends on the wording I guess.

So we need some flowery language?

Yes, like the dogs of war are gathering,

As two adversaries square up,

For gladiatorial combat.

MMM. Well, I’d prefer to write things like:

The sun is streaming over snow-capped mountains,

To greet the summer

As we awaken from our wintry slumbers.

That’s okay too mate: it’s all poetry.

But should I really be seen,

Talking to myself?

They know you’re mad already, friend,

No worries there.

That’s okay then:

Let’s get this thing posted.

Yes, go ahead.

Paul Butters

Becalmed

(Picture Credit - Ducati)

The sea has gone to sleep:

Become a mirror of the sky.

Lapping onto the land

With subtle churnings.

It’s a brightly sunny day,

Uplifting the spirits.

Hardly a hint of breeze

As the tide creeps out.

I slumber in the languidness of Willy’s beer.

All angst buried as I settle down to sleep.

That mighty, massive ocean is so still now.

Its monsters have been well and truly put to bed.

Blue sky

With lightly painted clouds upon the horizon.

My porch is warm today

In the golden sun.

Paul Butters